


New York, 1930

by bklynlow77



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 23:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15254091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklynlow77/pseuds/bklynlow77
Summary: Bucky and Steve before the war, before the serum, trying to survive New York over the years.





	New York, 1930

**Author's Note:**

> A lil pre-serum fic I wrote a couple years ago but never posted to ao3. I love my boys and I especially love pre-serum Steve.

New York, 1930

 

It was getting colder in New York, and Bucky couldn’t stand looking at Steve. His bone-thin knees were knocking in the bitter wind rolling through the streets, and his coat was so threadbare that it hardly kept out the chill. His friend was desperately tugging at his mittens and scarf by the time they got back to the small apartment, and despite the warm drinks his mother had prepared for them he didn’t seem to be warming up. In fact, the entire mood in the Rogers’ home had been damp since winter had arrived in full. Sarah knew her son was of delicate health and that they could never properly cure his incessant cold. The closest cure to his flu she could manage was an old Irish remedy, onions boiled in milk with pepper, and that only seemed to make him sicker (to be fair, that could make anyone gag).

“Hey, dummy, wear another sweater when we go out next time, okay?” Bucky nudged him softly. “I can’t deal with all your shivering.”

“Sorry, Buck.” Steve puffed a breath onto his hands and gladly accepted a blanket from his mother. He slumped onto the patched couch and drank deeply from his mug of tea. The iron radiator popped and creaked beside him as Bucky loosened the valve.

“Just don’t get too sick, y’know?” He smiled down at his shaky friend. “Who would I defend on the way home without you?”

Steve laughed weakly, which dissolved quickly into a wracking cough. The worrying knot in Bucky’s stomach grew, and he sighed. They had made it through the last winter, and he would be damned if they didn’t make it through this one. Even with the Depression hitting the Rogers’ as hard as it was, there was no way they wouldn’t. Steve was a fighter, despite what the kids who beat him up in the alleys said.

The admiration for his friend warmed his chest despite the damp apartment, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

  
  


New York, 1935

 

Even in the warm May breeze, even in his double layered sweaters, Steve was shivering as he walked home with Bucky. He listened to his friend whistle into the wind and felt his cheeks warm with pleasure. The tune was light, clashing with the settling gloom of the city, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Like their rent wasn’t late. Like Steve wasn’t getting sicker since his mother had passed from TB. Like the entire city wasn’t getting nervous about the depression that never seemed to end.

He spared a glance at his friend, with his rolled up sleeves and whistling, and got another idea for a drawing. Buck was probably getting tired of the sketches. Each one was so crappy he refused to show them to him.

Bucky jumped up the stoop steps, laughing into the spring air. “Y’know Steve, if you cleared out your nose you could smell the flowers. There might be flowers under the smell of smog somewhere.”

Steve snorted. Screw it, he was going to draw him anyway, even if he was just washing last night’s dishes now. He drew his sketchbook out of his bag with a pencil and began a rough sketch of his form doing just that: washing dishes.

He stuck his tongue between his teeth as he began getting down the finer details. Suddenly, in the midst of shading Buck’s shirt folds, a splash of bubbles smeared across the top of his page. “Hey!” He cried out against the perpetrator, who of course was Bucky holding a dampened dish towel. 

“C’mon, dork, help me with drying all these dishes. Half of ‘em are yours anyway.”

Steve sighed and stood from the old couch taken from his mother’s apartment. The patches were fraying, much like the old dish towels Bucky passed over to him from the sink. He harrumphed and began to towel off the spoons and plates from last night.

A spray of water splashed his forearm, and Steve looked up to see Buck grinning like a fox caught in the chicken coop. “Oh come on, Buck, I’m going as fast as I can.”

“Yeah and half of them are still dripping wet. Do I need to smack some sense into you?”

Steve laughed, “You could never beat me in a fight.” He held up his knobby wrists in a mock-fight position. “Bring it on, Barnes.”

Bucky dropped his towel into the sink and tackled Steve to the ground, careful not to actually hurt his delicate friend. Steve struggled against Buck’s hold but it was like he was ironclad. He finally gave up and lay panting, staring up at his friend, matching his grin.

Bucky seemed to notice their compromising position, blushed, and cleared his throat abruptly. “Right then, the dishes. We’d best get them done before dinner, right?”

He stood up and brushed off his pants before returning back to the sink. Steve sat up and looked up at his friend, now scrubbing hard at the dishes, a heavy red settled into his neck and ears. He ignored his own pink to start drying off the remainder of the dishes, and especially didn’t pay any attention to the thudding in his chest.

He pinned it all on the excitement of getting knocked down to the ground, even when six hours later his heart still pounded too much to let him sleep.

  
  


New York, 1940

 

Newspapers kicked around the street in the summer air, blown about by the hot summer breeze. A cloud of dust huffed past Bucky and Steve as they walked home together. Buck had abandoned modesty, coming straight from the gym, and refused to wear a proper button-down over his undershirt. Steve was carrying a copy of the paper home with him from work, the headline screaming about the war in Europe. A certain tension clouded over the city as everyone began to wonder when America would join the fight.

Buck had been working out even more than before, and between his job at the factory and the gym he was hardly home anymore. Instead he came home late at night, shoveled down dinner, and slept a handful of hours before waking up earlier than the sun to go to work. His weird hours had kept them separate, which Bucky was admittedly a bit glad about. Every time he saw Steve that same feeling spread into the pit of his stomach, something he had come to associate as dread. That fluttery feeling of anxiety could only be from the fact he knew he’d have to leave Steve soon. He just wasn’t cut out for the war, and Bucky was. As soon as America got involved, he would probably be shipped out, and as soon as that first winter hit, Steve would get sick.

“Whoa, there.” Steve pulled back on his arm. He had been so lost in thought he had nearly walked into the stoop rather than up it.

“What? Oh. Thanks.” Bucky cleared his throat and shook off Steve’s hand from his arm. “Don’t worry, I’m just stopping by to get my gym bag. It’s leg day!” He attempted a laugh, but it was so weak he gave up almost immediately.

Steve sighed before unlocking their door. “Right, and I’ll make extra dinner so when you get home at all hours of the night you can eat alone. Like you do every night.”

He paused before the icebox. “Did I do something to get on your nerves, Steve?”

Steve snapped the newspaper down on the kitchen table. “Well gee, Buck, it’s like I hardly have a roommate. You’re just this guy who happens to help pay the rent and occasionally helps with the dishes after I’ve gone to bed. For God’s sake, it’s just a little weird I sleep on the couch while you get the one bedroom if I spend more time asleep in this apartment.”

“I just--I spend more time at the gym and at the factory because the war is going to hit America and I need to make enough to help you with rent even when I’m overseas, okay?”

“What?” Steve spluttered. “You don’t think I can support myself?”

Bucky turned around from the icebox, finding Steve much closer than he had thought he would be. “Steve, you know I would never doubt you. It’s just--”

“No!” He jabbed his finger at Bucky’s chest, backing him up against the icebox. “James Buchanan Barnes, you’ve never had faith in me. You’ve been my mom since my actual mom passed away, do you know how odd that is? Especially considering--” he stopped suddenly, eyes wide, face steadily pinker.

Bucky looked down at him bravely, ignoring the steady thud of his chest. “Especially considering what, Steve?”

Steve’s eyes went wider and his face went pinker, and he stood rooted in place. “Especially considering nothing, Buck. It’s a good thing we don’t see each other too often.”

Bucky shoved himself off the icebox, Steve still locked down. “If you have something to say, dummy,” he whispered, “you might as well say it.”

His eyes glanced between Bucky’s before flicking down to his mouth, and back to his eyes. “Buck, I know it might be wrong, but--”

Bucky cut him off, sweeping into a rough kiss. It wasn’t what he expected, Steve being considerably shorter, both of their lips coarsely chapped, yet he was warmer and better than any of the girls he had taken dancing before. Steve gasped against Bucky’s tongue, and he abruptly remembered his friend’s breathing problems.

“Sorry, sorry, I don’t know what that was about.” He was staring hard down at Steve, who looked both frightened and tentative. Both of them were breathing hard.

“For crying out loud, Buck, stop apologizing so much.” He reached up and tried to kiss him again, though Steve was so short he couldn’t properly reach his face and instead brought him crashing down against the ice box. Bucky slid down to the floor, Steve stumbling on top of him, trying to keep his mouth on Buck’s. 

He drew back long enough to instead press his lips against the bruise Bucky had gotten at the gym the day before.

“Steve--” he gasped as Steve’s lips moved down his neck to press a new bruise into Bucky’s collarbone. “Oh, God, Steve, what are we doing?”

Steve moved back to Bucky’s face, choosing instead his ear to murmur comforts and suck at the soft spot under his jaw. Bucky pulled him onto his hips instead of sitting in front of his legs, and Steve began to move against his chest, eliciting a small moan from Buck. He pulled back at this, suddenly stilling. “Did I,” he swallowed. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, God no, it’s just--what the hell are we doing?” Bucky stared up at him, a steady blush settling around his new bruises.

“I know, I know it’s not right, I know you’ll have to leave once the war effort reaches us, but I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” Steve breathed heavily. “Ever since we were kids, ever since you stopped that guy when he nearly had me beat, you’ve just always been there for me. And Christ, you just stand there whistling or smiling, giving me these looks, and I know you’re not a dame but you’re better, you’re so much better.”

“Well,” he paused, unsure of how to respond. “I guess we have some things to figure out.”

  
  


New York, 1941

 

Steve slumped on the worn couch, the patches replaced since his mother’s time yet already fraying. The cast iron radiator pinged next to him, creaking like an elderly man in the winter chill. He was piled under three sweaters and an old quilt made by Sarah herself, yet the opened letter in his hands permeated the warmth with a needle of damp cold.

Hardly a month had passed since the terror on Pearl Harbor and the draft was in full swing. Every day another man in his apartment building was compelled to tell his weeping wife he was being sent out. Every day their sobs echoed down the halls, usually met with the additional cries from his children. And yet, after weeks of hearing it, why did he still feel the cold shock of dread upon receiving this letter?

He distantly heard the door open and slam shut, signifying Bucky’s return home. He hardly registered when Bucky sat next to him and kissed his cheek, instead handing the letter off.

“What’s this?” He took the envelope, his smile fading into a nervous line.

Steve stared down at his hands as Bucky tore open the letter and began to read. He heard a deep inhale before finally looking up.

“Well,” Buck’s voice cracked a bit before he cleared his throat. “I have always wanted to see Italy.”

“Yeah, except this isn’t much of a vacation.”

He gave a watery laugh. “To me it will be. Hell, you won’t even know I was gone before I come back.”

“Yeah, but what happens when that stops being true?” Steve inhaled sharply through his nose. “What happens when you forget about me?”

Bucky turned to him and cradled his face between his hands. “You get that thought out of your head. Right now. How could I forget about you, Steve. You’re the embodiment of home.”

“But--”

“No. Nothing. Steve, every time I think of this apartment I’ll think of you asleep on this couch and you cooking dinner before I get home from the factory. Whenever I think of New York I think of you doubling up on sweaters in the heat of May, and doubling that by November. And God, Steve, whenever I think of you I’ll think of those sketches you do when you think I’m not looking. I’ll think of that cake you somehow bake every year on my birthday when we only have an egg and half a bottle of milk in the icebox.” He pressed his forehead against Steve’s, closing his eyes. “I’ll think of how every time I kiss you, even after all this time, you still give that tiny gasp like you did that first time way back in the height of summer. The fact that you think I could ever forget you, even for a second, is absolutely crazy.”

He kissed Steve deeply, tasting like salt and melancholy. By the time Bucky drew back, out of breath, he stared up at him. “Maybe you should keep my photo in a locket, huh.”

Bucky grinned down at him, batting at his face. “Shut up, dummy. You know I would.”

It was then Steve knew that, no matter how far Bucky was going, he was never truly leaving. Besides, he would find a way to go after him. Somehow he would get himself enlisted, because God only knew Bucky couldn’t find his way out of an empty room without him.

  
  


New York, 2016

 

Steve walked back to his apartment, wearing a t-shirt against the January chill. DC was in an unusual cold front, prompting most citizens to donn the rare coat. Natasha glanced over at him, trying to cleverly conceal her worried expression and, despite her training, failing. She knew Steve could read her like a book, and honestly she wasn’t trying too hard.

“So…” she began before trailing off, unsure of how to continue.

“So what, Nat. Say what you want.”

“So we found your old friend back from the war days. Another dinosaur to join you in the Smithsonian, huh.”

He paused on the stoop and sighed. “I guess so, yeah.”

She nodded before continuing. “And he’s a national villain who has the biggest red ‘X’ on him S.H.I.E.L.D has set in a pretty long time.”

Steve moved wordlessly towards the elevator, still uncomfortable with the smooth ride and buttons, and Nat followed silently behind. He didn’t speak again until after he had unlocked the front door to his apartment, waving to his neighbor (whom he still liked to pretend was a nurse rather than yet another agent watching over him). The old radiator he found at an antique store sat silently while the central heat filtered into the room, and he offered a glass of water to Natasha.

“Thanks, Cap.” She smirked at his wince. He still wasn’t particularly fond about that nickname, and she knew it. “Do you have a plan regarding what to do about the Win--”

“Bucky?” He glared over at her. “No, I don’t have a plan. We were...friends back in the day but he’s changed so much, I don’t honestly think we’ll be friends like that again. Time’s changed.”

She nodded, drained the glass, and stood up. “Well, I can’t stay too long. You just seemed tense, and I wanted to make sure you got home safe instead of going all ‘vigilante’ on us.”

Steve smiled tightly and followed her to the door, accepting a comfort pat on the arm before slamming the door shut and sighing. It had been a long night, and he didn’t want to concern himself with anything mundane but rather just go to bed. He fell back onto his bed, stretching soundly before feeling a sharp jab from the mattress. With a hefty groan he reached behind his back and tugged at something tiredly, cold metal digging into his fingertips. 

No longer exhausted, he flipped over, catching a small metal locket chain in his hand. An oval no larger than his thumbnail dangled in front of him, and he felt along the seam to crack it open curiously, if not cautiously.

Rather than the S.H.I.E.L.D. instructions or noxious toxic poison powder he was expecting was a tiny sepia picture of himself, grinning at someone outside the shot to the left. Unsure of what he was looking at, the other locket half held a tiny folded up slip of paper. He carefully unfolded it with a steady hand, though he knew without the serum he might have been trembling by this point.

A minute list stared up at him, penned in neat handwriting vaguely familiar, yet not enough for him to recognize. “Couch, dinner, sweaters, sketches...cake...tiny gasps and kisses…”

For the first time in what felt like a year, Steve smiled wide and true, trying to avoid getting tears on the list. A loud laugh rolled through him, and he flopped back down on his bed, finally ready to make that action plan Natasha wanted so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh these two. Thanks for reading! I love this ship and especially love pre-serum Steve, so maybe I'll write more for them.


End file.
